


Payphone Blues

by NettlesOfAviation



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Apologies, Drug Use, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 02:10:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10957482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NettlesOfAviation/pseuds/NettlesOfAviation
Summary: Sober and lost, Alex is forced to straighten his priorities to save his relationship.





	Payphone Blues

**Author's Note:**

> I've got no idea why all my stories always involve some sort of alex-miles-jamie angst triangle thing doing on, whether if it's a love triangle or something else.  
> This is some quick idea I had. It was intended to be a drabble but then I ended up writing like 2k words. 
> 
> If I were to associate songs with this fic, I'd choose the start of Cupid by Alexandra Savior when she says something about coming back down to earth and how it sucks. If you've heard the song, you might understand where I'm coming from. I'm tempted to say Yes I'm Changing by Tame Impala, but with no definitive "end" to this, who knows? 
> 
> This is an AU where AM/TLSP doesn't exist. Drug use and infidelity is included so be aware if any of that makes you uncomfortable.

Reality slams into Alex like a freight train when the high wears off. He doesn’t quite remember where the hours went, or his phone. Stuffed in his pocket is a wallet, beer-soaked leather with a maxed out credit card and a condom wrapper. After studying the wrapper for a few seconds, he recalls what happened. A certain blond at the club, one too many margaritas then an empty bathroom stall. The low rumble of the music still echoes in his mind.

He trails down an empty street, oblivious to where he is. Somewhere in London, definitely not California, he deduces from the architecture. Although all the streets look the same and he can’t tell if he’s getting closer or further from home. Head still lost within the fog from all the alcohol, he struggles to read the time on his watch.

A taxi zooms by with a startling honk and veers away from the sidewalk, alerting him to pounce back from the side of the pavement where his feet have began to drift towards. For a brief second he considers taking a taxi but the feeling of stale beer dripping down his trouser leg from his wallet reminds him he’s skint.

No taxi would want him in their car anyways. The beer makes it look likes he’s pissed himself and the jaw grinding doesn’t make him come across as a friendly lad.

The cold air stings his nose. ‘Should’ve laid off the cocaine’, he thinks to himself as he sniffles once, then a dozen times to rid himself of a runny nose. It’s worth it. The blond, whose name Alex can’t remember, promised it was _the pure stuff_ and indeed he was right. One bump sent Alex begging for more.

It wasn’t just cocaine. There were many more drugs and now he feels the horrible aftermaths of his decisions which seemed like great ideas at the time. Jaw stiffening, his footsteps stop and he grips a lamp post for leverage. He keels over and vomits up a toxic cocktail of liquor. Under the orange glow of the light, he can make out a few pills in the puddle. Is that the vicodin or is it ecstasy? He wouldn’t be surprised if they’re bogus pills with no active ingredients.

After he regains his breath, he continues his slow wander. The night grows chillier and the cold penetrates his thick leather jacket, numbs his fingers. He craves the rush of warmth the cocaine gives, how whiskey tingles his throat and ecstasy which never fails to make him feel like he’s the king of the fucking world. Without all that, he’s just left with a sluggish sobriety where his problems creep back into life. Only if he could stay high forever.

Strong gusts forces him to take refuge in a telephone box. Not the lavish red ones, but the ones made from clear plastic and metal. Graffiti plastered across the walls, the pungent tinge of piss from the ground and the door makes a loud screech as he shuts it. He holds his breath, afraid to vomit again. There’s nothing left to hurl up.

Seeing as he can’t camp out in a dirty telephone box, he decides to make use of the coins which kind strangers have left behind. It takes some mental gymnastics but he works out that he can make five calls. Who would pick up their phone during the dead of night? He ponders for a few minutes, realising that he doesn’t have _that_ many friends he could call. With a person in mind, he reaches for the coins.

“Ah, fucking _shit_!” Almost half the coins clatter onto the damp floor. He squints to see their faint glimmer amongst all the grime then debates if he wants to grope the puddle of piss, vomit and god knows what else. Alright, he’s got three calls left. The coins slip through the slot and _cling_ softly as they fall into place. He carefully prods at the buttons, hoping he’s got the number right.

Dial tone humming in his ear, he clears his throat a few times so when the person on the other line asks _Al, you’ve been drinking, haven’t you?_ That his raspy “just a few drinks, nothin’ too much,” sounds genuine.

The other line picks up after a few long seconds. A smile lights up his face. “Hello? Who’s this?”

“Miles, ‘s joost me.” Alex murmurs back, trying to speak as clear as possible without slurring words. “Did I wake you?”

“Bloody hell you did. It’s half five.” Miles snaps back, not pleased in any way. “How much have you drank?”

“How much ‘ave _I_ drank? A few drinks, babe. Whiskey, a margarita or two.” Alex’s tone doesn’t sound convincing but half five is too early to be siphoning the truth out of him. He’s a terrible liar anyway, and he’s so drunk that Miles could probably smell his whiskey-breath through the line.

“Give me a good reason not to hang up.”

“I miss ya. Terribly-”

What does he expect? Every conversation he had with Miles for the past week resulted in an argument, whether if it’s about getting clean or the fact that Miles hates it when Alex washes his vomit covered clothes with their bedsheets. Alex never learns. Never learns that he shouldn’t wash his red t-shirts with the expensive silk covers. The first time it happened, Miles was slightly okay with it since the pink didn’t look too bad. Then it happened again, and again, and last week. Pink turned into a sea of mottled reds, forgiving sighs turned to getting fucked into the silk face-down ass-up, then slamming doors and dousing the sheets in gasoline.

Three different reactions at three different points in their relationship. They began as two clueless boys, hopelessly in love with each other. Afternoons were spent curled up in each others’ arms, smoking weed and attempting to write songs. Back then, Miles was an unknown singer and Alex sang in dingy bars. Noticed by a record label, Miles climbed the ladder to stardom where songs peaked in the charts and he had girls screaming his name.

Money poured in- no, it flooded in. The both of them drowned in the cash that Miles earned, which was millions more than Alex could ever earn in a lifetime. They moved into a nicer apartment, feasted like kings and made love in celebration of his success. The happiness dwindled down after a few months, they grew bored of marijuana and craved for a better high. No mellowness, not the feeling of weightlessness. They wanted electric energy coursing through their veins and fucking with their heads. Cocaine was the answer.

Grand guitar solos bled into Miles’ songs, sexy drawling lines and lyrics about ecstasy-fuelled sex. Miles strutted onto stage like a peacock showing his feathers, sang with his words slurred and looked down into the vast crowd, his pupils massive and heart racing from both the cocaine and anxiety. Alex watched from the sidelines, completely and wholly enthralled. He remained singing in bars, too afraid of the limelight which Miles bathed in.

The both of them were at their peak. Alex thought he’d finally discovered true happiness, and so did Miles. They gazed into each others’ eyes during heart-fluttering serenades, ran hand-in-hand from the paparazzi and tried almost every drug under the sun.

Alex returned late at night to find Miles still awake in bed, illuminated from the flickering lights of the television. “Why’re you watching your interviews?” He asked, kicking his shoes off then approached the bed. The darkness gave way and he noticed something odd. All their drug paraphernalia, gone.

“Look at me, baby.” Miles murmured, eyed fixed onto the screen that projected his tired face. In that interview, it was easy to tell he was sober from his sluggish responses. “I don’t want to be like _this_ anymore.”

They made promises that night. No more hard drugs, less alcohol and that together, they’d start new. It was easier said than done. One month later, Alex fell back into old habits of easing himself to sleep with pills, popping ecstasy to feel alive and found himself in pubs and clubs more often than home. Miles stuck to his words but the withdrawal symptoms drove him mad, made him miserable. He couldn’t write songs about five-day long benders, as he’d given up that life. He couldn’t write love songs or serenades, for his relationship had gone stale.

Alex, painfully aware that their love won’t survive if he continues this behavior, tried time and time again. _I’ll start tomorrow_ , he told himself those days before, and he told himself that at the beginning of this night.

Phone receiver tapping against his forehead, he recites his apology then the other superficial lines he’ll say to be forgiven. It always works, and it’ll work again. Two calls left. He listens to the dial tone ring once… twice…

“This is Miles Kane. Leave a message.”

Maybe he should follow instructions for once. The tone to leave a message plays. “Hey, you’re- I think- no, I’m- _shit!_ I’m sorry, Miles. I’ve fucked up, it’s my fault.” He’s abandons his script and opts for honest words. “It’s _fookin_ ’ freezin’ out here. I’ve got no idea where I am, I’ve lost me phone and my fucking mind. The only thing I know is that I don’t wanna lose you. I’ll change for you, baby. So if you could jus’ give me another chance-”

The signal cuts off. Alex blinks at the tiny screen of the phone which had been glowing just seconds ago, only to be greeted by his reflection staring back in the glass. An uncontrollable rage sends his entire body flaring with heat. He punches the plastic walls that case him into this tiny box, rips the receiver off the cord and kicks the door in until he’s breathless and weak with raw emotions.

On the mission to find another phone before he passes out from exhaustion, he snatches the money. With the sun rising in the distance, he can make out the coins on the ground. He doesn’t hesitate for a second and takes them. That’ll give him enough for another call and a cup of coffee.

Six in the morning, the city is beginning to wake. Passerbys give him second glances, wrinkle their noses at the smell he leaves behind. Being sober enough to notice their reactions, Alex realises why Miles wants to change. It’s bad enough to be judged by five strangers, must be horrible to be seen as a hopeless case by millions of people.

Attracted to the aromas of a bakery like a moth is to candlelight, Alex pushes through the doors. The counter-girl looks him up and down, flashes a fake smile when he approaches the till. “What can I get for you?” She asks, eyes filled with pity. Maybe she knows what it’s like to be completely wasted with no home to go to. Or she thinks he’s homeless for real. A part of him wants to slap out the intrusive thoughts, but that’s a sure-fire way of freaking someone out.

“Regular cappuccino.” Alex murmurs back after staring at the menu for a second too long. He hands the two quid over and hopes she doesn’t notice the dampness of the coins. He takes a seat by the window, props his head up on his hand, ever so tempted to sleep from the warmth that blankets him.

His drink arrives. It isn’t a regular. It’s a large and the girl puts it in a takeaway cup like she expects him to leave. Remembering that he probably smells like stale beer and cigarettes, he gives her a small smile then makes his exit.

Slumped on a park bench with no idea if the caffeine is causing his tremors or if it's his addictions beginning to take a toll on his body, he plans his next voicemail. There’s nothing more he can say. All he can do is apologise and hope his luck hasn’t ran out. Mustering the courage, he walks another few kilometres to a telephone box that seems to be in working condition. He pushes each coin through the slot, his heart thumps harder and harder. The dial tone hums, allowing plenty of time for a tight sensation to settle in his throat.

“This is Miles Kane. Leave a message.”

“Miles, it’s me, this time calling from a different phone box ‘cos the last one fucked up- anyways. I’ve got three minutes if I’m lucky. You know I’m shite with words, but I’m just gonna be frank.” He swallows then sucks in a deep breath. “I’m sorry.” The pause drags on as if he’s waiting for a response. “I’ve apologised a million times in the past, but this time I really mean it. I don’t know what the _fuck_ to do without you. And I-I know. You’ve given me chance after chance and I keep blowin’ it. I swear, Miles…” his voice breaks and for a moment he brings the receiver away from his mouth. “I love you. I know I’m struggling, and I just _need_ another chance. If you could joost-” a sob interrupts his words. “There’s no other person I wanna be with in the entire world. No place I wanna be without you. I won’ be comin’ home with flowers but I’m gonna swear to you. I’ll get clean. I’ve messed up and I want to fix this.”

A response would mean the world to him, the knowledge that Miles is hearing his words. He’s got a minute left. The seconds drag on in wait for him. He can’t see the blinking numbers through the tears that cloud his vision. “Please. I love you.” He whispers between soft gasps of air. A dead silence settles when the recording ends. He hangs up the receiver.

Nine o’clock passes after trailing through the long, winding streets of London. Street signs begin to become recognisable and he finds himself standing at the bottom of his street. In the distance, he spots Miles’ door. The bright red one that sticks out like a beacon amongst the black doors of each house.

Alex no longer craves for a high. He craves for love.


End file.
